A lone figure walked the bustling streets of Ondolond, tall and strong he walked forward with boundless pride in himself. Chest inflated outwards he exuded arrogance as he descended the streets of the busy city. His gaze held purpose, his lips pursed with intent, yet in reality, he had no purpose, no intent. Gildor was here idly and had nothing to do. For hours now, he'd been searching this godforsaken town, trying to find a suitable watering hole and met with no success. Within himself, he grew frustrated, agitated and antsy, release was what he craved, yet an outlet he could not find. The half-elf continued to drift with feigned purpose throughout the streets of the city. Night had long since fallen and yet, this town still did not sleep. People roamed the lanes, some walking hand in hand. His keen eyes found several of ill intent, but he hadn't the desire to intervene.

Such was this man, who proclaimed to be a monk, but really in name only. Long ago he had cast aside the trappings of that stifling life and donned a freer one where he lived by his own code and desires. Such views had taken him down, darker, seedier paths where he found excitement and adventure. And yet, inevitably, he returned to the light of the order, if only loosely. Even then, as he continued to drift down the street, the righteousness within him bade him to turn and fight those of ill intent, to bring fist to face and foot to groin for their error. However, with only a glance, he knew they were no match for him, few were nowadays and it would be a waste of his skill to even view them as sparing partners. So, he left them be, claiming with falsity that they had yet to commit a wrong.

Before him, a fork in the road, both literally and figuratively. He could take the left path and follow it into the unknown, or he could descend down the right, following the sounds of life and laughter. The left? Darkness and quite. For a moment, the monk stood still, azure eyes staring off into the distance as his mind was wrapped in thought. 'To take the right or left?' Surprisingly, this was the hardest the decision, Gildor the "Shadow Fist" had to make in several hours. A thought cut through the muddled confusion: a flip of a coin would decide his fate. And so, reaching within tunic to retrieve his coin purse he pulled out a single copper piece, staring at it in boredom for a moment before he tossed it high in the air. For an eternity it floated, higher and higher, as if the gods were toying with their wayward monk. And then, as if by the sleight hands of fate, the coin fell with efficiency and speed, aided by gravities embrace. With closed eyes, he waited patiently for it to fall, any around him would have thought his actions weird, but the subtle twitch of his elven ears explained all, within seconds, deft hands shot from his sides with lightning speed, a gift from years of training and caught the coin as it passed right below his ribcage. Continuing the swift motion, that same left hand brought the coin down upon the rights back with a dull slap. Gildor's eyes opened as he removed his hardened hand to view his prize. Tails. The right would command his destiny. He smiled, he wanted to go right anyhow. It seemed fun. 'The gods must be smiling on me tonight.'

With newfound hop to his step, Gildor walked down the dimly lit streets of the right road, whatever this place was, it was a lot more seedier than the left path. Again, he smiled, balefully perhaps. An odd man, this monk was. The thought of danger and excitement thrilled him, whereas pious study and ritual bored him. Truly he was only a monk by name. Continuing his trek, the Shadow Fist became aware of the dregs that inhabited the streets. The uncouth men and women who hung about like layabouts with nothing better to do this late eve. With feelings of superiority and disdain, the monk marched forward, spying all with azure eyes, as keen as an eagle's. His steps silent and swift a gift from his time as an 'intelligence gatherer' and 'enforcer' for hire. His wardrobe largely hidden beneath a cloak of onyx which blended beautifully with the night's backdrop. Only the stars could discern him. Hood removed, to reveal his visage, and caramel complexion revealed by candlelight splashed from lanterns hanging overhead, blue eyes glowing in the darkness and haunting beauty, he must have appeared otherworldly to those who noticed his approach.

And with each step, did the sounds of life grow louder. To one side of the street, the intimate sounds of fisticuffs, to the other, the sounds of song and dance. Yet he ignored it all for a much better locale. The night air benefited him with a gentle breeze, which taunted his bare chest, sending the trappings of his button down tunic and cloak to fly open, revealing ornamental and elaborate tattoo of surprising blue. Gildor, realizing this, grinned broadly. Now the entire city would see his perfect form and feel inferior in comparison!

Mundane structures bored his gaze as he searched without end, hair, held in a simple topknot fluttering gently in the breeze, waltzing in perfect step with the unseen force. And finally, when he was close to turning back, his eyes fell upon a structure that piqued his interests a construction solely carved out of crude stone. To keep the miner's comfortable and accustomed to their surroundings the tavern is carved from the bedrock of the earth with a stone exterior. A plain oak door hangs open and the lantern light from the tavern leaks out onto the cobbled streets. A black died thatchwork roof rests on the buildings supports bathed in the pale of moonlight.
Raucous laughter can be heard drifting on the midnight breeze. A simple man's building, one that looked sturdy enough to withstand the onslaught of dragons. Yet, that was not what called him within, the sounds of the flute and fiddle intermixed with laughter and the rowdy chatter did. His eyes spied the signpost, which hung over the simple door 'Viggo's Vein.' An intriguing name by any standards. Again, he smiled, though it was neither balefully, nor arrogantly, instead a roguish smirk crossed his visage as he envisioned the night to be had. Yet, he did not enter, instead, staring at this holy grail, in silent awe of its majesty.

Still grinning, Gildor entered through the front door, his entrance going unnoticed by all, save one. A thick bouncer stands guard at the entrance with a grizzled look painted on his face. A practical carpet of hair wraps the length of his upper body peaking through his tunic wherever an opening can be seen. A thick cudgel hangs at his waist and he eyes each patron who enters and exits the bar. As Gildor stepped further within, after having returned the bouncer's intense stare, his eyes adjust to the dim lighting and he spies his surroundings. The miniature mead hall sprawls out and to the right hand side of the room, the very same room that can be seen through the bay window facing the streets. Circle tables dot the floor each filled with a collection of filthy men sporting overalls. The thick waft of whiskey pierces the nostrils. As a busty bar maid shoves through the crowd coaxing a sharp whistle from one miner, and a swift slap to the rear from another.

The barkeep is an aged man, maybe forty or fifty, he's fat with a receding hairline that grays from it's natural black colors at the temples. It is slicked back with a few wild strands standing on end. He manages to stop and breath every few paces but it is evident that he keeps busy, his hand leaves the tap for but a mere few seconds before returning to it's faucet with another tankard in stow.

two musicians sit atop stools on a small band stand by the window. Both wear colorful green clothing. The flute player has curled soft leather boots adorned with bells and a liripipe atop her head, brunette curls hang around her face. The fiddler has a pair of tanned leather boots on, that tap the wooden floor boards rhythmically, as well as a white bandana tied taught around his forehead.

His grin now turning devilish as he spotted several women of considerable beauty, he knew that this night would offer the release he desired. Yet, he did not yet make for them, but instead, silently navigated his way towards an empty table, near the back of the room. It was by his nature, that he sought out the quiet places of the world, despite his subtle dislike of the solitude and such a place was found, if one could believe. Lying towards the middle back of the room, a lone table rested, devoid of anything foul and without life, Gildor sought that out as his location. Within moments, reaching the table and placing staff beside him, propping it against the chair adjacent to his. Deft hands rose towards his cloak and with fluidity unclasped the brooch that held it together around his shoulders. Gently he let the cloak fall towards the back of his seat as he leaned back, rising his feet upon the table. Simple yet durable shoes upon his feet. His frame exposed for every patron of the tavern to gleam, the Shadow Fist grinned with pride. Arms rippled as if with undo effort when none existed and pectorals scrunched together as he folded his arms across his chest. A look of content upon his angular, yet, square visage, he sat there, watching and nothing more.